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Bridget stared at her servant in disbelief. The sheer audacity of the below-stairs strumpet had left her momentarily speechless. How dare she presume she could dine in luxury in full view of her lover’s wife without getting her comeuppance? A comeuppance Bridget would gladly administer personally. However, as the two women stared at each other in an unspoken battle of wills, the rich and famous clientele around them dissolved into hysteria as the infected masses overran the saloon. They could no longer huddle below decks, the infection had spread rapidly in the cramped conditions of steerage, meaning fresh meat was scarce, and the demand for it was growing.
Guggenheim reacted first. As the first of the undead swarmed towards their table, he used his chair to ward off their advances, thrusting the stout wooden legs into their faces.
“Mrs. Grafton ... Bridget!” The urgency in his voice drew her attention away from Violet’s confident, almost arrogant, stare.
“Oh my! What ...” Bridget’s words were cut short as Guggenheim physically pulled her from her seat with one arm while pinning a scruffy urchin with bloodstained teeth under his chair with the other.
“Please excuse the overfamiliarity, Mrs. Grafton, but our exclusive little soiree appears to have reached its conclusion.”
He used his body to shield her from the approaching horde as he led her briskly from the table, making his way in a roundabout fashion towards the entrance with a terrified looking Andrews and Ismay bringing up the rear.
“That’s perfectly alright, Mr. Guggenheim,” she paused a moment to catch her breath, then added with a forced smile, “Propriety, at moments like this, seems a trifle redundant.”
“Quite so, Mrs. Grafton,” he replied, swinging a champagne bottle like a baseball bat into the face of a man in dirty overalls and large hobnailed boots. The bottle struck the assailant square on the chin with a resounding crack but did little more than turn the man’s head and dislodge a large flap of skin which stuck to the front of his overalls. He advanced another stride, his lifeless eyes staring past them, and yet, seemingly taking in every move they made. Bridget hiked her skirts up past her knees, gathering the material in a loose bundle at her waist, and swung a low, vicious kick into the side of the man’s knee. His leg broke with a sharp crack, sending him to the ground where he continued to scrabble after them, but more in hope than menace.
“Rough childhood,” she shrugged in response to the men’s astonished expressions. Stealing a glance to where Violet had been sitting, but there was no sign of her. The older couple whom she’d accompanied to dinner were engaged in a violent struggle with one of the plague-carrying invaders. Its teeth were embedded in the man’s arm and he and his lady friend were frantically beating it about the head with their napkins. As Bridget watched, several more of the gruesome attackers joined the fray, swiftly overpowering the helpless couple and dragging them to the floor where they began to dismember them as the two lovers clung to each other in one final embrace. Bridget heard their bloodcurdling cries above the tumultuous melee of screams echoing about the room as the hungry mob tore them apart.
“I fear we must make haste if we are to survive this evening; lingering here will certainly result in our demise.” Guggenheim had to shout to make his voice heard, although he preserved his gentlemanly poise.
“I couldn’t agree more!” Ismay shouted, ducking away from a rotting crewman before disappearing into the crowd at a sprint.
“The man’s a coward,” said Guggenheim firmly. “Let’s get you to safety, Mrs. Grafton. I have no doubt the captain will have devised a plan to ensure the safety of those passengers not infected by this terrible menace, and if the situation appears lost, he will authorize launching the lifeboats.”
With that, he took a firm grip of Bridget’s wrist and led her swiftly across the room using his free arm to push and punch anyone or anything that got in their way. He pulled Bridget behind him until they reached the relative calm of the lobby.
“Go to your room, Mrs. Grafton. You will, at least for the time being, be safe there.” He turned and strode back towards the pandemonium of the saloon.
“But what about you, Benjamin?” Bridget asked, although, in her heart, she already knew.
“Tell my wife in New York that I have done my best in doing my duty.” With that he vanished into the fracas with his fists raised like a prize fighter.
